Founded in Oxford, England in 1984, Verse is an international journal that publishes poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and visual art. The print edition publishes portfolios of 20-40 pages, while the Verse site publishes book reviews and individual poems. Verse is edited by Brian Henry and Andrew Zawacki.

Monday, September 28, 2009

What I meant to say, but the crop of false fruit kept intruding, is that doorbells are not destiny. They have no teeth. Split infinities while waiting for a ring.

When you come, you come without warning labels or guarantees (black box from a bastion of caveat emptor). All I ask is the insider’s peek.

___________________

The leaves have a theme song. It’s inspired by all those lullabies with falling babies and broken branches. I’ll sing you a snatch before the future explodes our foregone conclusion:

The heart is a minefield awaiting its moment. It bruises when served open-faced. Parentheticals wipe their feet on every act of faith. Above the sink, a cylinder of light winks like it’s in on the deal.

___________________

I got a call last month from a woman who uncorked a bottle of noxiousrecollections. She asked if I could put them back.

I tried to tell her there’s always a stain that can’t be scrubbed, but my tongue became a fountain spouting wishful thoughts. After that, I planted my spleen beneath the bed to see if anything would grow.

Now, my duct work chokes with vines. Against the concrete tree, woodpeckers beating their heads. Rakes are no match for the mess that's spread between us.

___________________

I have a dangling proposition: part apostle in the garden, part storm in your escape route. A dim bulb’s hope for harvesting sunrise from shrapnel and sawdust –

Let’s say we blow up the second act and spatter gold paint on what’s left. Send hope to the front lines to mop up the spills while we sleep.